


careful hands, mended hearts

by cave_canem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, domesticity levels through the roof, ft the cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 19:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13642662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_canem/pseuds/cave_canem
Summary: It’s not the first time Andrew’s been sick, but it’s the first time he’s had Neil as an unfamiliar audience. A few years ago, Andrew would have gone to work like usual, impressed people into indifference with his words and his knives, and left as soon as possible to lick his wounds in private. That’s impossible to do when a five-feet-three striker with too long hair crowded him back to bed as soon as he staggered to the door this morning.





	careful hands, mended hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [daydreamvalentine](www.daydreamvalentine.tumblr.com) for the aftgexchange, valentine's day edition! Ask for domestic andreil + cats and you shall receive.
> 
> Uh, also, this is unbeta'd so please tell me if you find any typo or mistake. Thanks for reading!

Andrew calls in sick for the first time in years in December, three months into their season with the Bighorns. The violent bursts of wind and the heavy snow have affected him more than Neil: he’s lived in California for most of his life and stuck to southern states since then. Winters in South Carolina were mild at worst, according to Neil—who doesn’t bat an eyelash at the idea of a city buried in the snow, and who only notices the weather long enough to comment on how impractical cold temperatures are—and the few months he spent in Georgia happened to have an all times high weather, apparently.

Andrew remembers being cold; he just doesn’t think he can really get used to the slippery feeling under his shoes, or the burn of the wind in his sinuses.

“December is Denver’s least windy month,” Neil informed him one morning as they headed out for practice. Andrew glared at him over the thick scarf protecting half of his face; he was bundled up and uncomfortable, and _still_ cold.

“I think you’re just really sensitive to cold,” Neil continued. “I guess it explains how you can stand to wear your armbands _and_ sleeves in the summer.”

“Put on your gloves,” Andrew said to shut him up, and he turned on the Maserati’s seat heaters.

Now, he’s lying in bed, his limbs heavy with the kind of fatigue that comes from his body rather than his mind, for once.

Their apartment building is new, and well insulated, at least, so Andrew doesn’t have to put up with drafts despite the large windows and the rather high ceilings. He still has half a mind to get up and turn the heat up—he doesn’t _want_ to, exactly, but he is used to acting against his body’s wishes—and he’s gathering his strength when Neil emerges from the bathroom. He’s already dressed, which means that Andrew can’t pretend to be surprised when Neil lays him back down and hands him the thermometer.

“We need to know if you have a fever,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Andrew does. He doesn’t want Neil to know. Or maybe he does; it’s hard to think straight with the fog curling around his brain. He wants to be left alone; he wants, impossibly, for Neil to come closer and hold his hand.

It’s not the first time Andrew’s been sick, but it’s the first time he’s had Neil as an unfamiliar audience. A few years ago, Andrew would have gone to work like usual, impressed people into indifference with his words and his knives, and left as soon as possible to lick his wounds in private. That’s impossible to do when a five-feet-three striker with too long hair crowded him back to bed as soon as he staggered to the door this morning.

Neil slips the thermometer under his tongue, letting Andrew settle back with his eyes closed against the burning light from the bedside table. He lets go of the thermometer a moment later when he hears a small beeping sound.

“100.6,” Neil reads. “Not too high.” He produces two Tylenol tablets and a glass of water. Andrew has become good at dry swallowing pills, in his time, but his throat is so sore that he doubts he can even swallow water.

Andrew’s arm shakes when he sits up on his elbow. For a moment, his throat closes, and he wonders with a kind of detached interest if he’ll choke, incapable of swallowing or breathing. He falls back down on the pillows, letting Neil tug the glass from his unresisting hand.

“I called you in sick,” he says. “I’ll pick up some NyQuil.”

“You’ll be late for practice.”

“I’m not going,” Neil says. Andrew cracks open an eye; he can recognize the signs of Neil hovering, now, even if—or maybe _because_ —it doesn’t happen often. He doesn’t know how to treat an illness that isn’t benign—ignorance—or deadly.

“You can’t miss practice,” Andrew rasps. “You’ll be insufferable.”

Neil rolls his eyes. He probably doesn’t think Andrew will notice in his state, but he does, and at the price of a surge of pain from his sore limbs, he manages to retaliate by poking Neil between the eyes.

Neil eyes him warily and sneaks a hand on his forehead.

“You’re not _that_ feverish.”

“Exactly. Go to practice.”

“Let me at least pick up some medicine for you.”

Andrew grunts and buries his head in the comforter when the weight on the bed disappears. His brain trails off for the next moments: next thing he knows, Neil is back on the bed, arched over Andrew to reach the window.

“What are you doing,” he rasps over the sandpaper scratching the back of his throat, his words almost indecipherable. Neil understands anyway, maybe because of the same infuriating way he seems to understand most things about Andrew.

“Bringing down the fever,” he tells him seriously, like opening a window in the middle of December when there is ice on the ground and snow on the roof is a thing sane people actually do. Andrew’s body has been wracked with feverish chills since he woke up, and he doesn’t know if he should curse or welcome the cold breeze on his heated forehead. 

“No.”

“Sorry, yes. You should never actually warm a fever, you know.”

“I hate him,” Andrew’s mouth says without checking in with his brain, buried deep under the blankets.

“ _He_ can hear you fine, you know.”

“Go away.”

“Ten minutes,” Neil promises before leaving the bedroom with his coat in hand.

Later, Andrew will reflect that this is his mistake. An open door is a powerful and dangerous thing, he knows. In his feverish state, staring at the back of his eyelids and breathing with difficulty out of his mouth, he doesn’t even consider what might happen, now that Neil’s left him without that wooden protection. The first dip on the bed takes him by surprise, and lashing out is instinctive, even almost out of consciousness. His arm darts under the cover, knocking down the intruder’s legs under him. King lets out one of his patented strident meow.

Andrew’s arm stays where it is, extended across the hot sheets, and he has just enough time to resign himself to King’s weight on his hand when Sir jumps directly onto his ankle.

Moving to dislodge her isn’t worth the effort, he decides. Besides, the warmth of her little body curled up at the back of his knees is starting to fight off the chills of the window. He lifts his head from the pillow and stares at her for a moment, noting the way her little body rises and falls in her sleep and how the hairs of her pointy ears shiver in the wind.

King takes advantage of his position to slither under the blankets, which delights Neil and annoyed Andrew until he measured just how much he dislikes the cold. Damn Neil and his stupidly extreme solutions to cure simple conditions.

“Don’t tell Neil,” he says, glaring at King as he settles down, tucking his paws in until he looks like a very black and very hairy loaf of bread.

“Tell me what?”

Neil is back, flushed from the cold and holding up a bag of medicine that looks too full to Andrew even in his state. Sir lifts her head, gets a pat for her trouble, and goes right back to sleep. She is the laziest cat Andrew has ever seen.

“The cats are full of hair.” Andrew rolls onto his side, pressing into King who purrs from out of view.

“That’s why you don’t allow them in the bed,” Neil agrees. His face is blank, but his eyes are soft and his lips, stretched into the smallest shadow of a smile, fond and inquisitive and scary.

He helps Andrew get his medicine, and he’s still sitting there on the bed when Andrew lets sleep pull him under.

He wakes up hours later, according to the sky outside the window. He notes the warmth of the room and the snow falling from the sky, then realizes with a jolt that he’s almost comfortable. King is absent, probably bothering Neil for food, considering the time. Sir moved to the pillow next to Andrew’s head, so that the first thing he wakes up to is a mouthful or tortoiseshell hair, inhaled directly in his dry mouth.

He stretches under the covers to test how sore his body is, and how much he needs to get up. His full bladder and the sound of the television help him decide.

Neil is in the living room, following an exy game on the television, when he should be playing one. Andrew wonders what the team will think for all of three seconds, recalls the rumors and the looks among their colleagues who haven’t yet grasped that Andrew and Neil live together—and, as much as the press would have them believe it, don’t hate each other—, deciding that fucking with them is worth the stares and the dumbfounded questions.

Plus, Renee has some money running onto them catching up before the year is up, so maybe he’ll have Neil drive them to work on Monday, instead of them taking two cars. He will have to wait for Neil to finish his post-practice run, but maybe he can go to the ice cream parlor right next to the court and try their new triple chocolate and fudge special. 

Andrew stops at the door, watching Neil lounging on the couch, valiantly ignoring King’s pleas for attention by petting him. Yes, he’ll have Neil drive, and they’ll take the Maserati, even if Neil’s Audi is better in the snow, because Andrew likes to sacrifice practicality for style, when it comes to beautiful things. 

He pads to the couch, sitting against the armrest so Neil can share the blanket thrown over his lap and Andrew can bury his cold feet under Neil’s ass, to warm them up and prompt him to change the channel when the game inevitably becomes boring (it’s one of Kevin and Thea’s; Neil’s already seen it, criticized it, and analized it again over the phone with a very worked-up Kevin). 

“Better?” Neil asks, looking at him over the mound of fur laying on his chest.

“Mmm,” Andrew says, knocking his knee against Neil’s. 

The touch is returned, a silent communication and assurance that things are good, right now. Andrew’s phone buzzes in his pocket a minute later, screen flashing with a message from the doppelgänger. 

_Go see a doctor if your fever is higher than 101 tomorrow,_ it says. 

_It’s not_ , Andrew sends ba, then drops his phone on the carpet.

“Aaron?” he asks.

Neil shrugs. “He’s a doctor.”

“He’s in training to be a neurosurgeon.”

“Yeah, so he should have already covered fever.”

Andrew relents. Sometimes, arguing with Neil is pointless. Most times, really. He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes, letting the sound of exy lull him back to sleep; after all these years, it’s only natural. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very appreciated and I'm [jsteneil](http://jsteneil.tumblr.com) on tumblr, come say hi!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [careful hands, mended hearts (the fever remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985071) by [conniptionns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conniptionns/pseuds/conniptionns)




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